


Sketches

by Jaelijn



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Draw Me Like One of Your French Girls, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Prompt Fic, essentially XD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-13
Updated: 2010-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26046049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaelijn/pseuds/Jaelijn
Summary: Holmes discovers that Watson has been sketching him in his notebook. He is enthralled, and plans something...Prompt:"Hmm, could I have something where Holmes accidentally discovers that Watson has been sketching him in his journals? And he likes what he sees, and then he starts posing himself about the room whenever Watson is at his desk....."
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Kudos: 3





	Sketches

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnonymousBlu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousBlu/gifts).



> _Archiving note:_ I am importing this fic to AO3 in August 2020 for archiving purposes. It has not been edited since its original publication in 2010.
> 
>  _Original A/N on LJ:_ This is a little ficlet I wrote in answer to a prompt in the first meme of watsons_woes, which celebrates the community's first birthday. The fic was requested by anonymousblu, who wrote:  
> "Hmm, could I have something where Holmes accidentally discovers that Watson has been sketching him in his journals? And he likes what he sees, and then he starts posing himself about the room whenever Watson is at his desk....."  
> It turned out to be a friendship-piece, celebrating some of dear Watson's strengths.  
> I hope you like it, anonymousblu ! Everyone, please leave a comment. Constructive criticism always welcome.

Life was dull indeed. No cases to occupy my mind, no sign of a criminal, or crime, to be worthy of one unfortunate specialist.

I found myself wandering around the sitting room of Baker Street for hours standing, poisoning the air with obnoxious smoke from my pipe – Watson would not approve, even if he always assured me that he'd rather see me smoke than seek refuge in the drug. However, Watson was away, seeing a patient (he was probably the only doctor in the whole of the British Empire who did not need a consulting room to have patients), otherwise he would have found a way to keep me occupied.

With a sigh, I knocked out my pipe and sat down at the writing table, with some idea in mind to write up a monograph, but in search of my pen, Watson's journals attracted my attention. There was a sheet of paper sticking out of one of them – the one containing the story of the Blue Carbuncle, as far as I recalled.

Brother dearest has once assured me that my curiosity would be my downfall, and maybe he is right in the fact that it holds certain dangers; I have, however, always argued that without curiosity I would find no pleasure even in my profession, and it is therefore that I let it get the better of me at times, and subsequently opened the journal to take out the sheet.

The paper was, surprisingly enough, not covered in Watson's illegible, hurried scribblings. Few things do surprise me, and I have to admit, the more I know my Boswell, the more he amazes me. The hand was quite unmistakable, the slight flourish to it, the hasty lines, and yet, that incorrigible perfectionism, that human urge to be better than the sum of ones parts, that was so prominent in my Watson, who always tended to hide his light under a bushel, was still there. Who would have thought that I was not the only one who had art in the blood?

Watson had created a sketch of myself that was as close to reality as could be. I was poised on the sofa as I had been during my examination of the hat that commenced the very interesting investigation of the Blue Carbuncle. He had to have a photographic memory indeed, for as I recalled, I had shifted shortly afterwards, and certainly never remained in that position long enough to allow for a detailed examination.

I have always had the impression that no one is more cursory in his examination of personae than Watson, but I would have sworn that no photograph that I have posed for in the past succeeded in capturing my essence better than this little sketch, no matter how much of my theatrical talent I put into it. I would have been delighted to see more of these...

Ah, maybe there was a solution to that little problem.

The day flew past in suppressed excitement on my part, my black mood all but forgotten. It would never do to ask Watson for another sketch – he would be embarrassed, and I, too, and there was no way it wouldn't have looked as fabricated as the photographs. Watson would only have tried to please me, and whenever he did that, he was no longer my Watson, no matter whether it was in the stories, or in real life. This little sketch had not only captured my essence, but his as well, and I wished not for a image of myself – I knew well how I looked like, for that matter – but for a capture of his view on myself, which was all but saturated with the deep friendship and loyalty I did not feel I deserved.

That being decided, I had developed a plan that was probably below my standards, and had certainly a touch of the ridiculous. I would, whenever the opportunity presented itself, confront Watson with an image he could not resist putting on paper.

Come evening, Watson returned drenched and thoroughly exhausted and retired shortly after dinner, leaving me no opportunity to act. The next day seemed to be more promising. We spent the evening together in our sitting room, sharing a drink and indulged in that peculiar, unordered form of conversation that would jump from one topic to another, as it had become our habit, but not once did he seem particularly intent in his observation of myself. I tried various things and poses, especially any of those he had mentioned in his stories – I do read them, whatever the public seems to think, and if I criticise, it is only because he avoids the deductions to avoid telling his readers that it is he who stimulates my thoughts, and completes them. But I digress.

My efforts seemed futile, and when he rose to stroll over to his desk I tensed in anticipation, but it was only to set down his glass and return with a box of his cigars. “Really, Holmes, must you keep fidgeting? I know you are bored, but I wish you would go for a walk in daytime to spend your energy, not ruin Mrs Hudson's chairs as well as the carpet.”

It was therefore that I had to desist from my efforts for the moment, but I would continue to try, albeit more subtly.

The next day, he sat down to write up our last case, not to sketch, and I strolled aimlessly about the room, posing at the fireplace, in my armchair, even at my chemistry table, but he was not in the slightest bit interested in my doings, rather seemed almost annoyed by my roaming, until he told me in no uncertain terms to leave for a walk.

I took his advice somewhat devastated, and I must have beaten my stick rather fiercely on the pavement, for Inspector Gregson looked twice before he approached me. “I say, Mr Holmes, it's a pleasure to meet you, sir. Are you all right? How is the doctor?”

“Fine,” I said, hiding my dismay. I was in no mood for small talk whereas my carefully laid-out plan continued to fail.

“It's really fortunate that I meet you, sir. I have a case at hand, and I could use your help in clearing up some particulars.”

'Clearing up the particulars' is usually something I leave to the police, or follow through only to satisfy my curiosity, but Gregson's offer was the first in weeks, and I therefore, if grudgingly, accepted. Sufficient to say that it was of mild interest, and stimulating enough to allow me to return to Baker Street considerably more even-tempered than when I had left, and also somewhat tired.

Watson was still at his desk when I entered the sitting room, but he had ceased writing and was rubbing his hand with the other, probably sore from his efforts. “What kept you?”

“Gregson. He needed a little help in one of his cases. I think I cleared the matter up for him.”

He nodded, and his eyes communicated the 'good for you' his delicacy would always forbid him to say aloud. “The case is written, too, but it still needs a little polishing. I will come back to it tomorrow, and then, maybe you would tell me about this little problem?”  
“Delighted, my dear fellow.”

“Dinner will be up in an hour. I just go and clean myself up a bit; I will be back presently.” He presented me his ink-stained hands – they would still be ink-stained after his wash, they always were – and left the room.

I was too tired, and, admittedly, too disappointed to try and continue to present him with an intriguing image, and my violin case held greater appeal to me, as it was the rule after a case. The music helped me to order my thoughts and channel my powers, but it also calmed them down to an still elated, but normal level, which would last a few days, probably a week or two, until I was in desperate need of another case, or else fell into a black pit.

The instrument lay patient and shining in its velvet, awaiting my return to it. It had been woefully neglected those past days – I had been preoccupied in my efforts to lure another sketch out of Watson's pen. Now, I tucked the violin under my chin, and placed the bow gently on the strings, letting the melody create itself, losing myself in the world of music and improvisation, where one tone would always demand another, and another, completing each other, falling, and culminating again, creating a whole out of pieces, that was probably more than just a sum of tones, a tune, a melody, song, music. I was utterly lost to the word of the living, and did not even notice that Watson had returned until the melody reached its climax, and demanded to end.

Watson did not comment, he seldom did, only if I played for his enjoyment. He knew me well enough to recognise when I played only for myself, and to his ear the tones would never assume the same quality as to the player. There was a certain joy in creating the melody, in being part of it, that one could not achieve, or even understand, while listening.

I retired shortly after dinner, satisfied at having solved yet another case, but still somewhat disgruntled that I failed to engage my Boswell's attention enough to try his hand at another sketch.  
  
  


In the morning, Mrs Hudson informed me that Watson had gone out early, leaving me alone. I had hoped for his attention to the little tale of the past day, and found myself feeling rather annoyed at his absence. He had been called away by a patient and had left in a hurry, his pencil still lay on the desk, in the middle of a sheet of paper. It was Watson's habit to put away his devices into a small box designed for that purpose, and therefore I picked up the pencil and placed it in its case, glancing at the paper in process.

He had wisely turned it around, and had apparently never intended for me to see. But it demanded attention again, my curiosity, and although I should have known what I would find, I was still utterly surprised.

There it was, the second sketch I had tried to lure out of him all those days, and had failed. He had not drawn any of the poses I had carefully, purposefully elected and executed. Rather, he had captured me in the process of playing the violin, the very event of the past evening, the very moment I had not tried to achieve a sketch.

It was all but perfect. Nothing he had missed, not the particular curve of the Stradivarius, nor the poise of my fingers on the strings, and the bow, nor the fact that I had felt utterly at peace in the music – evidently, it had radiated from my person – and in every stroke of the pen there was the presence of my Boswell, his loyalty, his admiration, his friendship. It was just as I had hoped it would be, and more than I had expected.

I must have been staring at the sketch for a very long time, for suddenly Watson was back, and standing right behind me. “Holmes.”

I looked up, and he blushed crimson red, misunderstanding my expression. “I did mean no offence, I did not want to intrude into such a private moment – I should not have...”

“Watson.”

He fell silent, shifting from one leg to the other, until he glanced up, his eyes sparkling defiantly. “I had not intended for you to find it. It's really not very good.”

“Nonsense!” I was on my feet in an instant, placing the sketch carefully on the table between us. “I have known for three days, Watson, that you capture me with your pencil, and believe me, my dear fellow, when I say to you that I have never seen any picture of myself that was better than these.”

He blushed even further, grasped the two papers and hid them behind his back. “It's nothing.”

“Yes, it is. If I had never reason to compliment you on your stories, I can hardly find the words to do these sketches justice, and I would be honoured if you would consider framing them for me.”

He cast down his eyes, embarrassed as I had known he would be, and not a little flattered. “Thank you, then, I guess.”

“Watson, allow me to pose you one question.”

“Yes?”

“Why did you chose these motives?”

He placed the two papers on the table, smoothing them out carefully where they had become crinkled, and look down at them for a long time, then back again at my, I fear, somewhat impatient face. “I cannot rightly say. I assume... I really don't know, Holmes, don't look at me like that! I have just tried to draw you the way you are when you are not the aloof detective!”

“I see.” I had always assumed that I _was_ the aloof detective, but maybe he was right – maybe that was the reason why every photograph had never looked like myself, because it was in fact just another role. “In any case, I would be honoured if you continued this little series of sketches.”

“I think I will,” Watson said, smiling now. “This last one is rather good, don't you think?”

“I do.” My dear Watson, he would never cease to amaze me. Maybe his intelligence was no match to my own, few were, but his wisdom would certainly forever surpass the mine.

**Author's Note:**

> The sketches I had in mind for this are two illustrations; both were done by Sidney Paget, the original illustrator of the Holmes stories. [Archiving note: Holmes studying the hat in BLUE and a stand-alone of Holmes playing the violin.]


End file.
